Megan found herself outside before she quite remembered the little gesture
of affection she'd given Radar in the mess tent, and she lowered her head,
holding a hand up in front of her mouth to hide a somewhat queasy smile
from the dark and silent world around her.
That people from back home still seemed to think of her with kindness shocked her soul into quietude. That Radar thought she was pretty despite her ghastly transformations delighted her and brought her back out into the world. She felt quite beloved of everyone, right then, the fact of the seneschal's obvious displeasure in her drunken state half-buried under a pile of pleasant thoughts of her family, all, of course, as they appeared 50 years ago, smiling as they looked at a picture of their missing daughter, of their missing sister.
Meg couldn't stop herself from spinning once around, looking up to the night sky and daring the sun to come up. Nothing could hurt her, now.
She giggled, still mildly drunken, but feeling it a lot less than the pure giddiness of the night as she called out the heavenly body of flaming death, "Come out, come out, wherever you are..."
"Yes?" a voice called out to her from the darkness behind the swamp, as she came to stand in the center of the compound.
She stopped. "Oh, sorry, I-- I didn't think there was going to be anyone out here. I wasn't talking to you." She added hastily.
"Yes, I know," Father Mulcahy responded lightly, stepping out into the compound, "I would, however, like to speak with you."
Meg smiled. Why, everybody wanted to talk to her, tonight. Her self- image got boosted up another several notches as she nodded to the Chaplain and spun half-around, keeping her face on him over her shoulder and jerking her head a bit to indicate that he should follow. "Say," she started, "I recognize you, I met you on the chopperpad-- well, sort of. I'm Meg... what's your name, hon?" she asked congenially as the Father stepped to her side and began to anxiously walk along with her as she took a stroll down along the tentfronts.
"Father John Francis Patrick Mulcahy," he intoned lightly, peering at the strange beast of a girl.
"Didn't you want to see the movie, Father?" Meg brightly asked, her aspect glowing with so much happiness that the chaplain could almost smell the Changeling on her. He was somewhat surprised.
"Oh, no," he responded, "I think I've seen enough in reality recently to miss out on the next dozen or so vampire films that come to camp."
Meg snorted as she giggled, thoroughly amused by his statement, "Don't worry, we'll clear things up around here, then life can go on as normal. Just don't believe everything you see in the flicks... Dracula's like a Tor, called a Nos, who took lessons from a Gangrel." She chuckled.
Father Mulcahy bit at his lower lip solemnly, looking at Meg with his large, questioning eyes. "How can you take these matters so lightly, Meg? Don't you know what you are?"
The scourge froze a bit, blinking at the question, and looking slightly uncomfortable. She tried to smile, though, and shrug it off, "Hey, Father, it's not as bad as all that. Don't knock it until you've tried it, right?"
Father Mulcahy shook his head, "There won't be any need for that. I know right from wrong. So do you, deep down. How can you say that killing people to feed off of their blood is 'not as bad as all that?'"
Meg pouted and dug a toe of her shoe into the compound's earth. "Hey, well, you don't have to kill someone to feed, you can just knock them out and toss 'em in a ditch to recover or someth--" she cut off, twitching slightly as she realized how horrible that sounded.
"You throw people in ditches. You /feed/ from their blood. How do you stand to face yourself in the mirror?"
Meg's humanity struggled to rise to the Hunter's call, but she shoved it down, shaking her head, "You're making it sound worse than it is!" she accused him, growing defensive, meaning several things by that statement at once.
"What could possibly sound worse than this... this monstrosity... is? What could be worse?" he goaded, trying to break through to her as he'd easily found Henry and Radar. Then, neither of the other two had been monsters for long. Maybe this one just needed a little bit more work.
But she stood strong up against his attack, clutching her beliefs in a close, clawed grip, turning to face him with a triumphant grin.
"Death, for one. Death trumps all. As long as it means a man won't die, many, many things are excusable. You should know that, working in this place. If you were---"
She paused her speech and stared at him before continuing, "If you were human, you'd know what I mean."
Mulcahy watched her closely. She didn't even tremble in her assertation. Completely unrepentant, he thought, before even the voices could remind him of the fact. Completely unrepentant. The Gangrel's face melted before his eyes into a that of a rotting sheep with golden fur, an idol dressed up for a pagan altar, an idol labeled 'life.'
"Father?" she asked, as he didn't say anything. She furrowed her brow and sighed, "Look, come right down to it, I'm afraid, okay? Nobody WANTS to die. This way, well... I don't have to." She reached to touch hium gently on the arm, "You understand, right?"
She looked down at her arm, which was no longer obeying her command to move. She stood rooted to the spot, and the beast jumped out from deep inside her in terror. She tried to sprout the deadly claws from her fingertips, to scratch off the face of the holy man, she tried to meld into the earth, to get away, to take wing and fly, to melt into fog, to do anything. She couldn't even raise her head from the bent position of forced supplication.
"We all have to die, sometime, Megan. We all have to answer to God for our lives."
She never saw Father Mulcahy pull a sword of angelic flame out of the ether and bring it down on her exposed neck.
~
That people from back home still seemed to think of her with kindness shocked her soul into quietude. That Radar thought she was pretty despite her ghastly transformations delighted her and brought her back out into the world. She felt quite beloved of everyone, right then, the fact of the seneschal's obvious displeasure in her drunken state half-buried under a pile of pleasant thoughts of her family, all, of course, as they appeared 50 years ago, smiling as they looked at a picture of their missing daughter, of their missing sister.
Meg couldn't stop herself from spinning once around, looking up to the night sky and daring the sun to come up. Nothing could hurt her, now.
She giggled, still mildly drunken, but feeling it a lot less than the pure giddiness of the night as she called out the heavenly body of flaming death, "Come out, come out, wherever you are..."
"Yes?" a voice called out to her from the darkness behind the swamp, as she came to stand in the center of the compound.
She stopped. "Oh, sorry, I-- I didn't think there was going to be anyone out here. I wasn't talking to you." She added hastily.
"Yes, I know," Father Mulcahy responded lightly, stepping out into the compound, "I would, however, like to speak with you."
Meg smiled. Why, everybody wanted to talk to her, tonight. Her self- image got boosted up another several notches as she nodded to the Chaplain and spun half-around, keeping her face on him over her shoulder and jerking her head a bit to indicate that he should follow. "Say," she started, "I recognize you, I met you on the chopperpad-- well, sort of. I'm Meg... what's your name, hon?" she asked congenially as the Father stepped to her side and began to anxiously walk along with her as she took a stroll down along the tentfronts.
"Father John Francis Patrick Mulcahy," he intoned lightly, peering at the strange beast of a girl.
"Didn't you want to see the movie, Father?" Meg brightly asked, her aspect glowing with so much happiness that the chaplain could almost smell the Changeling on her. He was somewhat surprised.
"Oh, no," he responded, "I think I've seen enough in reality recently to miss out on the next dozen or so vampire films that come to camp."
Meg snorted as she giggled, thoroughly amused by his statement, "Don't worry, we'll clear things up around here, then life can go on as normal. Just don't believe everything you see in the flicks... Dracula's like a Tor, called a Nos, who took lessons from a Gangrel." She chuckled.
Father Mulcahy bit at his lower lip solemnly, looking at Meg with his large, questioning eyes. "How can you take these matters so lightly, Meg? Don't you know what you are?"
The scourge froze a bit, blinking at the question, and looking slightly uncomfortable. She tried to smile, though, and shrug it off, "Hey, Father, it's not as bad as all that. Don't knock it until you've tried it, right?"
Father Mulcahy shook his head, "There won't be any need for that. I know right from wrong. So do you, deep down. How can you say that killing people to feed off of their blood is 'not as bad as all that?'"
Meg pouted and dug a toe of her shoe into the compound's earth. "Hey, well, you don't have to kill someone to feed, you can just knock them out and toss 'em in a ditch to recover or someth--" she cut off, twitching slightly as she realized how horrible that sounded.
"You throw people in ditches. You /feed/ from their blood. How do you stand to face yourself in the mirror?"
Meg's humanity struggled to rise to the Hunter's call, but she shoved it down, shaking her head, "You're making it sound worse than it is!" she accused him, growing defensive, meaning several things by that statement at once.
"What could possibly sound worse than this... this monstrosity... is? What could be worse?" he goaded, trying to break through to her as he'd easily found Henry and Radar. Then, neither of the other two had been monsters for long. Maybe this one just needed a little bit more work.
But she stood strong up against his attack, clutching her beliefs in a close, clawed grip, turning to face him with a triumphant grin.
"Death, for one. Death trumps all. As long as it means a man won't die, many, many things are excusable. You should know that, working in this place. If you were---"
She paused her speech and stared at him before continuing, "If you were human, you'd know what I mean."
Mulcahy watched her closely. She didn't even tremble in her assertation. Completely unrepentant, he thought, before even the voices could remind him of the fact. Completely unrepentant. The Gangrel's face melted before his eyes into a that of a rotting sheep with golden fur, an idol dressed up for a pagan altar, an idol labeled 'life.'
"Father?" she asked, as he didn't say anything. She furrowed her brow and sighed, "Look, come right down to it, I'm afraid, okay? Nobody WANTS to die. This way, well... I don't have to." She reached to touch hium gently on the arm, "You understand, right?"
She looked down at her arm, which was no longer obeying her command to move. She stood rooted to the spot, and the beast jumped out from deep inside her in terror. She tried to sprout the deadly claws from her fingertips, to scratch off the face of the holy man, she tried to meld into the earth, to get away, to take wing and fly, to melt into fog, to do anything. She couldn't even raise her head from the bent position of forced supplication.
"We all have to die, sometime, Megan. We all have to answer to God for our lives."
She never saw Father Mulcahy pull a sword of angelic flame out of the ether and bring it down on her exposed neck.
~